h is a
thing apart from merely loving melodious sounds. Once, at the place
where she was living, the home of a married cousin, Hollister heard
her play the piano for the first time. He listened in astonishment,
forgetting that a pianist does not need to see the keyboard and that
the most intricate movements may be memorized. But he did not visit
that house often. The people there looked at him a little askance.
They were courteous, but painfully self-conscious in his
presence,--and Hollister was still acutely sensitive about his face.

By the time that April Fool's Day was a week old on the calendar,
Hollister began to be haunted by a gloomy void which would engulf him
soon, for Doris told him one evening that in another week she was
going back to the Euclataws. She had already stretched her visit to
greater length than she intended. She must go back.

They were sitting on a bench under a great fir that overlooked a
deserted playground, emerald green with new grass. They faced a
sinking sun, a ball of molten fire on the far crest of Vancouver
Island. Behind them the roar of traffic on downtown streets was like
the faint murmur of distant surf.

"In a week," Hollister said. If there was an echo of regret in his
voice he did not try to hide it. "It has been the best month I have
spent for a long, long time."

"It has been a pleasant month," Doris agreed.

They fell silent. Hollister looked away to the west where the deep
flame-red of low, straggling clouds shaded off into orange and pale
gold that merged by imperceptible tints into the translucent clearness
of the upper sky. The red ball of the sun showed only a small segment
above the mountains. In ten minutes it would be gone. From the east
dusk walked silently down to the sea.

"I shall be sorry when you are gone," he said at last.

"And I shall be sorry to go," she murmured, "but----"

She threw out her hands in a gesture of impotence, of resignation.

"One can't always be on a holiday."

"I wish we could," Hollister muttered. "You and I."

The girl made no answer. And Hollister himself grew dumb in spite of a
pressure of words within him, things that tugged at his tongue for
utterance. He could scarcely bear to think of Doris Cleveland beyond
sound of his voice or reach of his hand. He realized with an
overwhelming certainty how badly he needed her, how much he wanted
her--not only in ways that were sweet to think of, but as a friendly
beacon in the mur